


So far we are equal

by Irrelevancy



Category: One Piece
Genre: Alternate Universe - Cinderella Fusion, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Anal Fingering, Bath Sex, Bathing/Washing, Class Differences, Class Issues, Class Play, Come Eating, Consensual Kink, Dirty Talk, Kinktober 2019, M/M, Massage, Multi, Polyamory, Power Dynamics, Power Play, Praise, Riding, Service Submission, Sexual Roleplay, Uniform Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2021-01-13 17:16:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21185318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irrelevancy/pseuds/Irrelevancy
Summary: “This is,” Ace hissed, “the royal bath.”“Yeah, Ace, I've noticed.”My kinky tag-in to lucky's Cinderella!AU. For Kinktober.





	So far we are equal

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to [lucky's legendary Cinderella AU](https://midnightluck.tumblr.com/post/161909581249/mas-cinderella-au-my-preference-would-be-ace-as); thank you for letting me play.
> 
> Also dedicated to the OG anon who sent me the cinderella!AU prompt at the beginning of October. Took me a while :')
> 
> Kinktober day 21: washing/bathing  
Kinktober day 24: *role play (changed from tumblr)  
Kinktober day 25: *class play (changed from tumblr)  
Kinktober day 26: comeplay
> 
> Title from _Pride and Prejudice_, the first text that came to mind when I thought, "spicy class dynamics."

“This is,” Ace hissed, “the _royal _bath.”

Even though Sabo had been conscientious enough to leave his boots at the entrance, there was still a trail of dirty footprints following him from the door. He bared his teeth at the creamy marble underneath.

“Yeah, Ace, I've noticed.”

“What are we even meant to _do_ in here?” Ace was externalizing all the unease and distrust Sabo was choosing to keep under wraps, glancing agitatedly about and pacing around. But not pacing too far—he stuck within the perimeter of two square flagstones lining the floor, and Sabo watched as the soot gradually darkened in the shape of a rectangle. “Can we—Fuck it, let's just steal some water and get out.”

“You don't have to steal anything yoi, just bathe here,” came a familiar voice from the side door, its amusement echoing through the bath chamber. Marco came into view, dressed already for his birthday ceremony. As crown prince, there were all sorts of appearances he was expected to make on this big day, and apparently it began with this: a stiff purple coat with double-breasted gold buttons, a black leather belt cinching the waistline, a thinner one running across the torso, military stars and the family crest pinned to the chest, shimmering braided chords draped over a tricep. Trousers pressed with neat sharp lines, unflinching leather boots.

At Sabo and Ace's wide-eyed staring, he immediately held up his palms in apologetic recognition.

“It's a lot, I know.”

“Yeah,” Sabo heard himself say, “we were definitely just about to complain about how you look.”

“Cheers,” Marco acknowledged with a snort. He was quick to unravel the belts and shed the coat (Sabo may or may not have heard a soft sound of protest from Ace), then sat down on a dry bench to shed his boots. Most of his glitz laid aside though, Marco still looked every bit of the regal prince, tie done up and the collar of his shirt in perfect geometry. His bare feet stepped familiarly onto the flagstones that marked the beginning of the bathing space. “Well, in an effort to make sure nobody complains about how _any_ of us look tonight yoi, let's get you both cleaned up. Unless...?

“No, no we'll still be going,” Ace piped up, quick to assuage Marco's concerns. He glanced down though, picking self-consciously at his servant's tunic, one that he definitely nicked from Sabo. Neither owners had ever been too precious with it (which was absolutely the point, Sabo thought, why have a shirt you couldn't even work in), and it showed. “We want to support you, y'know? But we just, I guess we were kind of...”

“Misled?” Sabo filled in with a scowl. “Why did Thatch tell us to get in the royal baths?”

“Well, it was closer I guess,” Marco blinked. “And you two are technically royalty and all—”

“Yeah,” Ace said, “but we don't really know how to—”

“—_bathe_?”

“Bathe _here_,” Sabo snapped. “Jerk.”

Along with the steam from the ever-warm bathing pool, something rigid and uncomfortable suffused the air. Marco slowly, _fully_ took in the distraught expressions on Ace and Sabo's faces, and his smile cleared into something a little more serious.

“Ah, I see.” A self-effacing little quirk of the head and Marco was making his way to the hot water. The casual way he strolled through the palatial space (like he owned it—because he did) and rolled up his crisp shirt sleeves that somebody else ironed and starched for him only served to piss Sabo off even more. Made Sabo feel that much more insecure. “My apologies, I should've been more considerate yoi. There _is_ a sort of specific way to do things in here.”

“Is it called getting servants to do it for you?”

“Sabo...” Ace sounded reluctantly chiding—keyword, reluctantly. He knew exactly what was going through Sabo's mind and getting Sabo's hackles up. Marco though, didn't really react, just crouched down and pulled two little wooden stools out from under the lip of the bath. He slid them nearer to Sabo and Ace, then pulled out a relatively big basin as well, with a little ladle tumbling about inside. In calm, certain motions, Marco filled the basin with water from the bath and poured in some fragrant soapy solution, giving it a quick swirl with his free hand.

Then he turned on his heel, looked right at Ace, then Sabo.

“I could call in some servants for you,” Marco said, crossing the flagstones. As he passed the stools, he set the basin down in between them. “But I get the feeling neither of you really want that.”

“Look,” Sabo sighed in exasperation, “we can just go back to the servants baths and do this, okay? Like we've always done—”

“Sure you can yoi. _Or_—” Pausing squarely in front of Sabo, Marco, with a meaningful look, lifted his hands to the top button of Sabo's shirt. “Allow me. My prince.”

Sabo bit down hard on the inside of his cheek. There were so many things he could say, some angry, some scoffing, all of them rejections. He drew blood instead and swallowed it with saliva. Looked instead to Ace for guidance.

Ace's expression was... strange. On one hand there was the daring, beautiful rejection of protocol he's always worn so well, sitting right underneath the day's dirt and soot. There was the matching tension in his knuckles, the anger to demolish the extravagance and lavishness that surrounded them that Sabo found so resonant.

But at the same time there was the helpless softness in his eyes for Marco, the bone-deep certainty that whatever unpleasantness scorched at their nerves, Marco wasn't the enemy here. Furthermore, there was the speculative angle in the tilt of his chin, an allured curiosity for what Marco was offering here.

Drinking all that in, Sabo made his decision. He lifted his chin, and let the curl of his lips go haughty.

“Go on then,” he said, throat bared so _vulnerably_ to Marco. Marco the Crown Prince, the legendary top warrior of his father's kingdom, whom Sabo has seen fight in Impel Down and knew lived up to the legend. Marco, who's left all the medals and epaulettes hanging by the side door and offered to serve. “Attend us.”

A smile bloomed on Marco's face, so gracious and genuine that Sabo had to look away, heart pounding condemningly loud. Even as children, it was this precise smile that changed Sabo's life. Even after crawling through rosebush thorns, pinpricks scoring through his expensive shirt and across his skin, Marco's only ever had that smile for him.

_He said you were pretty._

Sabo gritted his teeth when his side with all the scars became exposed to the swirling bathhouse steam. Marco's hands didn't linger on them though—didn't linger anywhere. He drew off Sabo's shirt with professional ease then started unbuttoning Sabo's pants. He didn't let the trousers fall, instead guided them down like they weren't frayed and stained with age and grime. His own trousers—the expensive ones, thick and pressed—kneeled right onto the damp floor tiles.

“You—” But Sabo shut himself up, because why would he protest? They were just pants for crying out loud, and it's not like Marco harvested and weaved and sewed them himself. And it was just water; a bit of sun will get the dark stains now around the knees right out. There really was no need to protest.

Marco smiled at him again like he was kind, gathering Sabo's shirt, trousers, and undergarments over the crook of one arm (those dirty clothes smearing immediately across the neat white fold of his shirt cuff). Standing up with nary a blink at the state of his own pants (nor at what removing Sabo's pants had revealed, which Sabo was absolutely not disappointed by), Marco now turned to Ace, who had waited patiently for his turn with the pink-cheeked, almost-smile of someone who's figured out his role in the script.

“You'll wash us both by yourself?” Ace asked, with only a hint of tentativeness, as Marco undid his buttons. “That's not enough hands to go around, is it? I'll go cold from the waiting.”

“I'll do my best yoi,” Marco replied. Now that Sabo was watching from relative distance, he could see how thoroughly Marco was actually enjoying this; it was visible not only in his face, but also in every gliding gesture, every curved posture. It was like Marco _luxuriated_ in his servitude. He went to his knees again, and Ace was fully and gloriously nude. “Please, sit down.”

Eyes fixed on each other in both solidarity and hazy arousal, Sabo and Ace drifted forward to the stools Marco had pulled out earlier, and sat. The lines of demarcation in the bathhouse, Sabo could see now, were subtle; the flagstones marked out the space where the actual washing could be done, and the thin grooves carved across the flooring drained the water out to a corner. Things brought out to the flagstones were meant to get wet, carved out of heavy dark woods, and fine with a bit of dirt (unlike say, the polished cream marble that lined the entrance).

Shelves of powders, soaps, and bottles lined one side of the room, and that was where Marco went to fetch an array of items. He also grabbed a long flat legged plank that seemed the perfect height for sitting on, before piling on it thick fluffy towels of several different sizes and coming back over.

“Who's first?” he asked.

“Sabo,” Ace said, at the same time Sabo demanded, “Ace.”

“Sabo goes first,” Ace insisted, cupping some water and absently splashing it onto his own legs. “You'll never guess it but his hair's actually blond underneath all that soot.”

“Yeah, but your _face _is actually—”

“Sounds good to me yoi,” Marco interrupted cheerily, setting everything in his arms down on the floor. Sabo quickly scrambled, turning so that he faced Ace and pulling Ace's whole stool closer.

“Fine then, I'll get Ace while you're at it,” he insisted, desperate for something to do with his hands so he wasn't just stuck like a useless doll while Marco rinsed him off. This was stupid, but it'd be fine. They'll get the dirt off, none of it will get on things it wasn't meant to get on, and they'll be done in minutes. Just like normal. “C'mon then, gimme a sponge and your back.”

“Ah,” Marco made an apologetic sound, suddenly in Sabo's ear, “I'm afraid that's not how things are done here.” His torso against Sabo's back was a different kind of heat than the impersonal steam of the bathwater. A hand smoothed up the front of his neck and bared his throat. “Here yoi. Close your eyes.”

Obedience came easier than Sabo would've liked, but what else was he supposed to do, with Marco's face right over his? He heard a soft clunk, a_ glug_ of water—then he felt the water, a guided stream being poured over his hair. The overflow stopped just short of his forehead and trickled down the backs of his ears. Marco's arm touched gently against the scar on Sabo's face as he began carding his fingers through Sabo's tresses, getting them thoroughly soaked. The rushing splashes filled Sabo's ears, and his lips fell helplessly parted, drinking in the steam.

Marco refilled the water scoop. Repeated.

An echoed, low murmuring vibrated in the air, against Sabo's skin, but he didn't even bother to parse the words, so utterly enraptured by this sensation. He liked the soft brush of Marco's clothes on his back. He liked the soothing drag of water, and Marco's nails softly scratching across his scalp. He liked the new fragrance that's just appeared, wafting to his nose.

“Keep your eyes closed yoi,” Marco rumbled, all sonorous tenor and an echoic chest, and it still took Sabo a few moments to understand there was meaning in the phonemes. It's not like he was planning on opening his eyes anyways. “I'm putting in the shampoo.”

“What's that scent?” Ace asked, knee knocking comfortingly into Sabo's.

“Night jasmine. Seemed fitting.” Marco's fingers methodically kneaded a gelatinous paste through Sabo's hair, until suds coated every strand. There was a pattern to his motions, and Sabo's eyes fluttered open when Marco's thumb started rubbing soothing circles across his hairline. The disobeisance was out of trepidation; Marco would reach his scar this rate.

And reach it he did, swiping excesses of water and soap off the uneven skin without a single stutter in his motions. Sabo didn't want to meet Marco's eyes, but couldn't allow his own eyes to close either, not when he felt so fucking _vulnerable_—he stared up at the ceiling instead, that smooth dome of stone slabs, and worked on not letting those threatening tears condense on his eyelashes.

(He failed, when Marco finished washing clean the back of his ears and leaned forward, brushing just the gentlest kiss over the point on Sabo's forehead where the scar tissue began. Twin tears fell from the corners of Sabo's eyes and all three of them pretended it was just bathwater.)

“May I wash your face?” Marco asked quietly, and he looked prepared for Sabo to say no. So Sabo said no. Sabo wasn't quite ready to be completely cracked open yet. “Let me get your back then, yoi.”

There were still scars there, but at least Sabo wouldn't be in danger of seeing Marco's face (and whatever enticingly reverent expression Marco'd wear) every time he opened his eyes. He would see Ace instead, but Ace was—Ace was safe. Ace had seen Sabo's jagged edges and then chipped himself apart to match. For Ace, Sabo could fall to any pieces that he needed.

He scrubbed at his own face with the flat pads of his fingers, eager to sud up, rub the grime off into balls of dead flesh, splash the whole mess away. Except Ace was playing into a role as well, moving Sabo's hands away to wash at Sabo's cheeks in much gentler little circles. When Sabo glared, he just grinned and used a soapy hand to swipe Sabo's eyelids down.

“You put all that powder on my face, I wash all the dirt off yours. Seems fair,” Ace laughed, scrubbing up to the temples.

Marco started on Sabo's back at the same time. First came the blanket of water to wet everything down. Then there was a soft but textured flannel drawing determined swipes over the planes of Sabo's muscles, leaving soapy streaks in their wake. Another scoop of water. Soapy hands this time, the controlled drag of thumbs over the backs of Sabo's shoulders, finding spongey muscle with corded, tense tendons underneath, aligning the lengths and _pushing_—

“—_ah—_!”

At the same moment of the instinctive flinch forward, Sabo also jerked his entire torso back, desperate for more of that amazing _pressure_. If his eyes had been open, Sabo was sure they would've rolled back in his head. Marco's grip, having slipped from the initial jerk, doubled back down, twin bars of beautiful force getting stronger and stronger and stronger until Sabo truly felt _squeezed dry_—

—and then abruptly released. Breath tumbled out of Sabo in a long unsteady stream, and his spine curled forward like a rubber band released. A whine escaped his throat.

“Good, yoi?”

“I'm pretty sure he'd say yes if he could,” Ace replied with both amusement and awe. “I'm gonna rinse your face now Sabo.”

He accepted the wash of water down his face without any squirming. Ace patted a dry towel encouragingly over his face. It all felt so dangerously indulgent.

“Your back is still quite tense,” Marco commented, thumbs tracing down the twin strips of muscle lining Sabo's spine. “A soak will do you good, yoi.”

And perhaps it was all the tension released from that one good prolonged squeeze, perhaps Sabo just felt like it was high time he got some control back in the situation, but the words left his mouth before he could think too much of them:

“Is that anyway to speak to your prince?”

Marco's beat of pause felt, against all odds, delighted.

“My apologies for overstepping,” another hesitation, like he was testing some waters he couldn't wait to leap headfirst into, “your highness.”

And—what the hell was Sabo actually playing at? Wasn't he the first and most enthusiastic shirker of crowns and titles? The moniker that tasted so genuinely bad in his parent's joke of a court—why did it seem so tempting here? Like a thick-petaled flower set on a dinner plate, meant for décor but inviting teeth. Like the soap that smelled so sweet but should sting his tongue so bitterly. And yet—

“Turn around Sabo,” Ace said, voice so _hot_ with intention. “Let Marco wash your feet.”

So Sabo did, his pulse feeling like whatever engineering mechanism sat underneath all the flawless marble (covered in grease and stowed away as unsightly) churning out liquid heat at high velocity. The tempo was chosen for him, by one pair of hands with dark skin and dirt packed under fingernails, and another, pale and soft with royal care. He was moved under their hand like a piece of clockwork due for renovation, lids lifted and camouflaged compartments exposed. He could feel their reach _inside_ him, gentle nails picking out each wheel and untangling each spring, _polishing_ them ever so lovingly.

Sabo was hard. Of course he was—how could he not be with all the touch and all the miasmic solace pooling in his body? Arousal wasn't a pressing thing though, far from it. It was sultry pliancy, when Marco brought the flannel up to his inner thighs and genitals in goal-oriented touch. It was cauterized contention, when Ace guided him to stand so Marco could wash his behind, the back of his legs. It was stirring inspiration, when, seeing Marco on his knees with shirt and trousers damp and ruined, Sabo turned his cleaned foot just so. The arch sickled toward Marco and Marco, ever obliging, kissed the warm skin there.

He set that foot on Marco's shoulder, just gently.

“Alright, I'm done,” he heard himself say, the echo depositing his conscious awareness a million miles away. Every inch of his skin felt buzzy. “Wash Ace now.”

“Yes, your highness.”

Sabo lifted his foot. Turned, and allowed Ace to pull him into a ferocious kiss.

“Go soak,” Ace ordered, having barely pulled away from Sabo's mouth. The rough skin of his hands, framing Sabo's face, have remained fairly dry outside of contact with water, and for the first time in memory, Sabo consciously wondered if Ace was leaving streaks of dirt on his cheeks. Got harder at the thought, in this thrilling dance between clean and soiled, between the pristine heir on his knees and _Ace_, whatever Ace was, prince and rogue and vagabond all at once, marking his strength with stains of soot. “Your shoulders especially. We'll join you in a moment.”

“Yes,” slipped out, with far less irony than Sabo intended, “your highness.”

Ace sent him toward the bath with a playful tap on the ass. Sabo _really_ hoped that left a mark.

* * *

Ace and Marco were a vision together. Sabo truly could not imagine a sight more enticing, two men more the perfect definition of _desirable_. The water lapped at Sabo's throat as he soaked, arms folded over the edge of the bathing pool. He pillowed his chin on his wrist and watched.

Suds were generously frothing up on the top of Ace's head, now that they were on the second wash. Marco seemed particularly keen on working his nails against Ace's scalp, the scratch of keratin loud enough to be heard over the muffle of the soap, over Ace's deep breaths of pleasure. Sabo could see now exactly what Marco had done for him—the articulated presses of thumbs against Ace's temple, swirling pressure along Ace's hairline, knuckles at the base of Ace's neck. Ace said something Sabo didn't decipher, and Marco moved his arms to more of a bracing position against Ace's neck and chin. A _crack! _of rounded edges realigning, and Ace groaned loudly, giddily.

“Rinse,” Marco told Ace, and was so _covetous_ with the way his own body received the sluiced-off water from Ace's head. There was no shying away, no torso braced at awkward angles. He just let the runoff drench his shirt, the front of his trousers. Wet cloth clung to to the outline of his body, and somehow, Sabo thought Marco seemed way more vulnerable, way more _naked_ than himself or Ace, despite their actual nudity. It was the openly craven line of Marco's body; it was his servility performed so plainly _selfish_, making it clear that every speck of dirt he could wash from Ace's body was his distinct and sought-after pleasure.

“This is oil, yoi,” Marco explained, rubbing viscous liquid from a different bottle onto just the ends of Ace's hair. Sabo could smell something artless and earthy. “With mineral extract harvested from a lava field.”

“It's nice,” Ace offered, tilting his head forward to let Marco twist the oiled strands further up on his skull.

“I'll wash your back now.” Marco glanced over at Sabo at first with a teasing glimmer in his eyes—but that look quickly melted into pure affection. Sabo didn't know what caused the change, but was so soaked down that he just happily accepted it as his due. “Tell me if the water is too cold.”

“Actually, yeah, I can stand hotter.”

The water basins were in the alcove right underneath Sabo's head. But he didn't move an inch to help, just smiled as Marco stood up and approached. Marco was smiling too, and Sabo let a hand fall over the edge, dangling over the basins.

“Pardon me, yoi,” Marco said, reaching for a basin. Sabo clicked his tongue, and waved his hand again pointedly.

“You are far too relaxed now,” Ace commented amusedly from his stool as Marco, getting the hint, picked up Sabo's hand to kiss the back. Marco too looked amused, though Sabo couldn't even bring himself to mind, thoroughly enjoying the sensation of his hand in Marco's. This might've been the way Marco held Ace's hand during the dance, he thought. This might be the way he'd hold both their hands during the dance _tonight_.

Marco got the basin, filled it, and reluctantly let Sabo's hand go. He made it back to Ace with a fresh tub of steaming water.

“Better,” Ace commented, petting the side of Marco's head approvingly. Marco didn't do anything as obvious as lean into the touch, but he still managed to visibly relax further—and maybe relax wasn't quite the right word either. _Sink_, was more accurate, pesky corporeal barriers like skin and muscles and bone simply domino-ing down, leaving behind a truer image of Marco at his essence.

He soaped across Ace's collarbones, pectorals; ducked under Ace's armpits and soaped across the great expanse of Ace's back, the broad shoulders down to the trim waist. No stutter in motion from a royal who's probably never _had_ to bathe himself.

“Tell us,” Ace said, moving his this way and that to get the best pressure from Marco's washcloth, “what is it that you like about this?”

It was another ladles of steaming hot water, then Marco guiding Ace to stand, before Marco answered.

“You two risked everything you were working towards at that ball, yoi,” came so quietly they were almost lost underneath the hills of softly popping bubbles. “All for... my happiness? I don't—I'm honestly still trying to wrap my head around it. But I do know it's hard not to want to give you two _everything_ in return.”

“I wasn't—” Ace's cheeks had rouged from embarrassment, a different shade of flush than from just the heat. “I'm talking about...!”

“Oh,” Marco replied to Ace's exuberant gesturing at his posture. He had washed down to Ace's legs, and now stood kneeled fully in front of Ace's naked front. “I suppose I like the view?”

“You—”

The amazing thing about Ace, Sabo thought, was how quickly and _willingly_ he adapted to any game, and then played to win. It spoke to not only a sharp intellect, but also a generosity of spirit, because enthusiastic engagement was a genuine gift. And Ace was never a poor winner. When he deigned to, he won with grace, and clear dignity.

And now, taking Marco's response for the bait it was, Ace visibly shuffled away any trace of polite chagrin. He stood tall, even loomed a little, letting Marco look his fill—because kings and other such creatures of majesty could hardly be bashful under the eyes of mere servants.

“Just looking won't get me clean,” he told Marco, in the ancient voice of _dragons_. A great despot sitting tidy on his hoard of gold, with nothing but indolent disdain for the puny gold seeker. _Go ahead and touch_, he was saying with fire licking his lips, _but know you'll take away nothing I won't let you_.

Marco's eyes went dark and greedy. He reached out, and touched.

Now _this_, this was different from what Marco did for Sabo. It was careful massaging motions with the flannel between Ace's legs, it was a firm grip stroking up the entire length. It was getting Ace hard and dripping, then finally dropping the washcloth in the basin, sitting his weight down on his knees, and waiting for instructions with parted lips.

“Sabo's been waiting so patiently for you, hasn't he?” Ace asked rhetorically, turning toward the bathing pool. “Stand for me.” When Marco lifted eagerly to his feet, Ace simply reached out, undid the buttons on his trousers, and let the trousers drop. They pooled around Marco's ankles, with Marco's hand just twitching faintly at thin air by his sides. “Why don't you prep yourself, then get in that bath and show your prince a good time?”

Sabo's awareness slammed back so hard into his body that he started. He realized, with distant shame, that he'd actually been drooling a little bit into his arm. When he pulled further back into the pool, wiping at his chin, Ace glanced over with a smirk on his lips.

“One of those oils there must work for this, right? Grab something fruity.”

Ace joined Sabo in the tub, happily sidling up to him and giving his inner thigh a cheery squeeze.

“You doing okay in here?” Ace asked. “You're looking a little flushed.”

“I'm good.”

“You sure? Don't want you passing out when Marco's riding you.” A messy tumble of glass, a curse. Ace laughed, and swam out further into the center of the pool. Regardless of the open cheer in the room, he still had to make sure, “that's okay right? This is something you want?”

_I want most things you say I want_, Sabo wanted to say. He also wanted to say, _this is revenge isn't it? I send you to dance with Marco in my stead, and you send me to fuck Marco in yours._ He ended up simply nodding, drawing himself out of the pool as per Ace's concern, letting the cooler air of the room relieve the heat that had been compressing his chest so gradually that he hadn't even noticed.

Ace's gaze went half-lidded, and he nodded to something over Sabo's shoulder.

“Would you look at that.”

Sabo turned to look, and felt his breath stutter at the sight.

Marco was back on his knees, having fetched a brightly colored jar from the shelves. He'd knelt by his pants, the expensive fabric wrinkling and soaking beyond repair, probably, on the flagstone. He had one hand braced to his side, and the other reaching behind him, pumping fingers in and out of himself as per Ace's order. If Sabo looked closely, he could see trails of oil trickling down Marco's palm and wrist. Marco still wore his shirt, but the whole tabloid was somehow made even more obscene by it—expensive cloth wet and contoured around Marco's torso, his pert nipples, and the shape of his erection, masked in shadow under the garment.

He was looking straight across the stretch of space at Sabo and Ace too, little sighs from stretching leaving his lips. His neck was arched in carnal exposure, and his blinks kept getting longer and longer, like he longed to just close his eyes and _fuck_ already.

Finally, Ace gave a low whistle.

“Think that oughtta be enough,” he smirked, swimming back over at the same time Sabo slipped back into the water, submerging up to his chest. “C'mon then.”

Marco's return to his feet looked a little more wobbly this time. He came over, but hesitated on the edge of the pool. Sabo could already smell the pineapple and passion fruit of the oil Marco had chosen.

“What's wrong?” Sabo asked, injecting his tone with just a little note of impatience. Marco licked his lips, then stepped in with one determined furrowing of the brows. His shirt ballooned up in the water in quite a silly way—which was, Sabo realized, what put Marco off for that moment of pause. He couldn't help but snort in amusement. The man who's already spent what felt like hours on his knees for Sabo and Ace, getting embarrassed by a little shirt mishap and indignity? “Aw, come here. I can get that for you.”

When Marco obediently climbed up to straddle Sabo's thighs, Sabo reached out and, crudely, ripped the two sides of Marco's shirt apart. Several buttons plopped free into the water, bobbing along the shifting surface. The sides instantly trailed apart on the water, solving the ballooning problem immediately.

“There we go.” Sabo gave his shoulders a little roll, before settling his arms back along the edge of the pool. His cock stood harder than ever, just below the water's surface. “Hop on.”

Marco didn't need help, but Ace swam over anyways, stroking along his flanks, lifting him slightly in the water, then guiding him down. Sabo stared, transfixed, at Marco's soaked eyelashes—the wild fluttering as he worked through the initial pain of the stretch, then the loosening, the fanning out, at the bliss of being filled so deep inside.

Ace floated up and over Sabo's thighs too, setting his knees on either side of the seat and deliberately pressing forward. He draped his arms over Marco's shoulders and _leaned_, until his mouth was tongue's length away from Sabo's neck and Marco was so _tightly_ sandwiched between them. Marco bit his lip, and Sabo tossed his head back with a groan, nails clawing into the tiles.

“What do you think then?” Ace asked Sabo, twirling a strand of Sabo's soaked hair (now a light and gleaming blond, as promised) on a finger. “Is he satisfactory?”

With Ace's weight on Marco, Sabo had a nice counterweight to buck his hips up against. He relished in the squeeze of warmth, the stifled whimper in Marco's throat.

“He does the trick, sure.” Sabo fought hard to keep the strain from entering his voice. “But not much else, apparently.”

“Aw, hear that?” In the water, in lieu of a slap, Ace sank his fingers into the sensitive underside of Marco's right thigh. “That's your cue, sweetheart.”

Marco's neck and ears were such a violent, humiliated shade of red, but he obediently began to roll his hips. Ace made a show of getting comfortable, aligning his own cock against the cleft of Marco's ass to also get in on the friction—and when he hummed in satisfaction, Marco's teeth clenched and his face dropped into Sabo's neck.

“Is he embarrassed?” Ace cooed, darting in for a quick kiss to a corner of Sabo's lips. “Why are you hiding your face when you're doing such a good job of pleasing us?”

“Truly going above and beyond for a bathhouse attendant,” Sabo agreed, licking lazily at the shell of Marco's ear as he caressed the shaven side of Marco's head. “We'll see about getting you a promotion.”

“Our private attendant,” Ace murmured. He punctuated this thought with several thrusts of his hips that even Sabo could feel, and Marco's length was pressed, so hard, against Sabo's abdomen. “We wouldn't want you offering this sort of service to just anybody else, you understand. We're princes after all.”

“You'd be filthy after you've served everybody else,” Sabo growled right into Marco's ear, Ace leaning in so close that their noses were pretty much touching. They had Marco well and truly _wrapped_ between them, unable to escape even as Marco jolted at the words, a shiver visibly making its way down his neck and spine. “You shouldn't dare to even _offer_ yourself to us when you've been on your knees in front of some lesser lord.”

“When you're _loose_ from someone else's fingers.”

“Tell us—what's the lowest rank you'd spread for? A count? A baron? Captain of the guards? Or maybe even just your common guard? The Crown Prince here is quite famously generous with accolades and rewards to those who deserve it. Are you part of that reward? The castle guards who stood brave against the Marines a fortnight ago—will the Crown Prince pass you around to service them?”

Marco, shuddering hard, cried out into Sabo's skin, grinding harder and harder forward chasing his own orgasm. With a heavy stare, Sabo met Ace's eyes over Marco's shoulder. Ace grinned and nodded.

Together, they sudden stood, lifting all three of them completely above the water. Marco was much too experienced a rider (of _horses_, was Sabo's meaning, but he supposed of other things as well) to carelessly flinch and lose balance at the surprise shift of gravity, so their choreography was smooth. Sabo got his feet under him and sat again, this time at the edge of the pool, so just his shins were submerged and water, along with steam, was sloughing eagerly off them all.

“You want to come?” Ace asked Marco off-handedly, but Marco froze like Ace had added, _before us?_ Standing knee-deep on the bench Sabo had just gotten up from, Ace leaned slightly down, took one of Marco's hands in his, and wrapped them both around Marco's dick. “You can. We want you to.”

He set Marco's hand on a rapid pace, stripping briskly at Marco's length with the finish line in sight. Sabo contributed a few pivots of his hips when it looked like Marco could really benefit from a shift in angle, and pretty soon, the pressure of Marco around Sabo's dick was intensifying, heralding Marco's orgasm.

Just before Marco came, Ace brought Marco's hand up to cup around the head of Marco's cock. Sabo held Marco tightly, fucking him through the orgasm until Marco's breath returned, and the trembling of his torso subsided. Up now on dry land, Ace took Marco's hand, held it out before all and sundry, exhibiting the come puddled in his palm.

“Terrific,” Ace said. “Now clean that up.”

So Sabo was treated to the sight of Marco's face crumpling in utterly humiliated submission, before Marco brought his palm up to his lips, and _licked_.

“_Fuck_.” Now Sabo was honestly fucking up into Marco, jostling Marco so hard his hand slipped and smeared a streak of white across his chin. Sabo didn't relent, just dared Marco to stop with a scorching glare, and thoroughly enjoyed the way Marco had to, with renewed desperation, lap faster at the come in his hand before he lost his hold on it.

“Look at you,” Ace hissed, one hand bracing the back of Marco's neck and the other on his own cock, working himself over. Sabo _looked_, the astonishingly lewd spectacle they've made of Marco's body—the rich linen of his shirt hanging soaked with torn threads haloing it, the red patches on his knees from kneeling so long that would surely bruise tomorrow, the teary eyes, the come on his hand and face. “Who's the filthy one now, hm? Fuck, Marco, you're _amazing_—”

Ace came with a loud groan. He aimed his cock at Marco's ass, and while Sabo couldn't see it from his vantage point, he certainly _felt_ the splashes of liquid heat dripping down the cleft and onto his cock, working its way into Marco's body via Sabo's motions. It was this sensation that set Sabo off, fisting the halves of Marco's torn collar and yanking Marco forward. He _bit_ when he came, sucking a savage bruise right at the base of Marco's neck as he pumped Marco full of come. Marco yelled too, baring his neck further, clawing at Sabo with his clean hand in an imitation of teeth marking skin.

When Sabo opened his eyes, it was to the sight of Ace's satisfied smile and softening cock.

“It'd be too cruel to make you clean all this up too,” he teased, running a hand through Marco's hair. When Sabo released his teeth from the deep, _deep_ indents in Marco's skin, Marco made a mewling sound of both disappointment and relief. It was Ace who tugged now at Marco's shirt, this time drawing it completely off of his shoulders and arms. “Come on then. In you get.”

Gloriously soaked in come, Marco was coaxed to slip back down into the bathing pool, Ace holding him from behind. For just a moment, Sabo sat still. He wanted to both catch his breath and watch them, two princes at the end of play. Like the chemical flow of equilibrium, it was Ace's turn to wash down Marco with soothing circles of his hands while Marco relaxed. Sabo watched Marco's eyes flutter shut, his loose limbs gradually gaining life and agency again in the water under Ace's ministrations.

Finally, when Sabo slipped back in, Marco could sit up straight again. Meet both their eyes with a very tentative, very self-conscious little smile.

“That was...” he said quietly, “alright, yoi?”

“_Alright_? That was _amazing_.” Ace's kiss smacked loudly onto the pleased flush on Marco's cheek. “Sabo?”

A little self-conscious as well, Sabo nonetheless took Marco's hand, and kissed the back.

“As a bathhouse attendant,” he murmured, peeking up just once, “you were very pretty.”

Marco's hand jerked in his as Marco's eyes widened in disbelieving embarrassment.

“Well—I—” Marco broke off with a cough and a recalibrating shake of his head. “You know most people would be impressed by the royal uniform, not—the sheer _opposite_ of it, yoi.”

“I should hope we're not most people,” Sabo said with a quirk of an eyebrow, setting Marco's hand back down but moving no further away.

“Yeah,” Ace chimed in, wrapping his arms around both Marco _and_ Sabo, drawing all three of them tightly together once more. This time though, with libido sated and nothing desperate to push into anything else, they fit cozily up against each other. Perfect edges, perfect pieces. “We're your princes, after all.”

The steam, perfumed with night blooms and lava and fragrant tropical fruit, bathed them all in its gentle wrap.

**Author's Note:**

> (I'm gonna roll back in for edits when I'm less tired :') sorry for any typos)
> 
> When I was processing that kink list, I had no idea what "class play" would even look like—and here we are. Hope kinkerella ft. dirt & soot as elements of roleplay was _fun_ for y'all.
> 
> My [Tumblr](https://touchmycoat.tumblr.com/), and now there's actual proof I fill prompts!! Leave a comment~!


End file.
